


Tea John's Way

by WillowedHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catheters later, Complete, Copious amounts of tea, Hospitalized, John is mourning, Kidney Problems, Lots o Tea, M/M, Mycroft is worried, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock needs to hurry up and come back, Some medical terminology, Tea, slightly angsty, tea addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowedHeart/pseuds/WillowedHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tea is relaxing, delicious, nutritious, and good for the soul. That is, if you don't drink more than six cups a day.</p><p>After watching his fiance die, John comforts himself with multiple cups of tea... Too much of a good thing does have horrible results.</p><p>*This is for a friend!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft's Visit to 221B

**Author's Note:**

> My friend has wanted someone to write this for her for ages! If you want to see what the prompt is, see the notes at the bottom. It's the only time I'm putting it up! *Please note: I do not have a beta. Any and all mistakes are obviously mine and need to be fixed. Sorry about any ahead of time. You can comment about it at the bottom :)* Enjoy Deary!

Five days after Sherlock’s funeral, Mycroft Holmes took a trip to 221B Baker Street. It was his duty as Sherlock’s brother to clean up any mess he makes and this… well John Watson was the biggest one his brother had ever made. The psychological trauma he had been through was detrimental at the least. Obviously, he had to check up on him for Sherlock’s sake. It had nothing to do with Mycroft’s worry over John’s well-being - most certainly not – It instead had everything to do with keeping the family together. And unless stated otherwise by Mummy, John was part of this family.

When the funeral ended, John walked away with his body tense and right hand twitching in a way that made Mycroft’s eyes narrow in concern. Mycroft didn’t have to be a genius to know this wasn’t going to be easy for any of the party members. It was Sherlock’s hope, however, that once a few months had gone by, those he held close could return to a relatively normal life. Mycroft sneered at the sentiment of Sherlock’s statement. It never coincided well with a Holmes. It clouded judgment in the most imperative of times – when Sherlock needed to be rational, but Mycroft hadn’t said that out loud. He was a pragmatist, not a hypocrite.

Mrs. Hudson let Mycroft in after three knocks, her eyes wet and lip worried to tatters. She told him what Mycroft had already known from the CCTV recordings; John had not left the apartment since the funeral. She had gone up only once to leave some groceries for him outside the door, but she didn’t (more likely couldn’t from the way she adverted her eyes from 221B’s door) go in. All she could really report was that John was moving about constantly. Sometimes he was making loud noises throughout the night, shifting large pieces of furniture around in what Mycroft assumed was his way of remembering the nights he was woken by Sherlock’s violin.

Mycroft sighed as Mrs. Hudson finished. He thanked her like the diplomat he was, and turned towards the stairs. His journey up the steps was churning with some trepidation as he braced himself for something that he wasn’t even sure he knew. When he got to the top, he held his breath and knocked once. When he heard the movement in the apartment stop, he waited, but got no response. Then, he opened the door after knocking again and getting no acknowledgement for a second time. He took one step into the apartment and that was as far as he was able to go.

“Go away-”

“-May I implore as to what it is you are doing?”

John’s face was set in a large frown, staring at Mycroft with obvious distaste, but that was not what Mycroft was focusing on. John had been working hard on transforming the apartment, apparently. He had cleaning supplies, books, papers, tea cups, and miscellaneous items strewn around most of the apartment’s surfaces. There was a mop leaning against the fridge, several spray bottles containing Clorox and bleach next to the sink, and plates and pans stacked along the counters and floors. Two tea kettles were currently sitting on the stove, one was turned on and one steaming in the back. Each piece of Sherlock’s equipment was stacked, freshly cleaned in the sink’s drying rack; anything in the fridge that was once Sherlock’s was now in the trash. All drawers and pantry doors were wide open and airing, having been scrubbed profusely if the shining spot where the scorch mark had been was anything to go by.

A couple of tea cups with various amounts of tea were littered throughout the kitchen table tops and other flat surfaces in the living space. A vacuum and duster lay next to the davenport where a small armada of tea cups laid on top of multiple reference books. Sherlock’s violin and microscope, the laptops, and a messy bundle of rags were huddled in front of the fireplace. The skull on the mantel was dusted, shiny, and sitting next to a stack of three tea cups. Currently, a large carpet cleaner hung in John’s right hand, a cup of tea in the left. The place was ridiculously messy and becoming much too clean at the same time. It frankly worried Mycroft more than he was willing to admit.

“What, never seen anyone actually clean before?” John raised the cup of tea to his lips, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t care for getting dirty. My mistake.”

As much as Mycroft tried to tell himself that he couldn’t do anything to help Sherlock before the fall, he was still affected by John’s words.

“You have patched the walls, washed the wallpaper, cleared every surface to a polish, and are proceeding to get the blood stain out of the carpet with actual results. If it weren’t for the fact that you are mourning the loss of your fiancé, I would have thought you were trying to clean up a crime scene.”

John stopped cleaning to glare up at Mycroft, “Piss. Off.”

He turned away from Mycroft, heading towards the kitchen. He stepped over and around the objects on the floor before pouring himself another cup of tea. There were no more clean tea cups in the apartment, so he used the cup he had closest to him. He hoped that Mycroft would have taken the hint and left, but he did not and instead sat down in Sherlock’s spot. John ignored him as best he could. Going back to the stain in the carpet, John set his tea down on the table by an apple he had yet to eat for his lunch today, or maybe yesterday? He wasn’t quite sure at the moment.

The carpet stain was about as big as John’s head with splatters here and there before he had begun to clear it away. He had succeeded in getting most of the stain out of the carpet so far, but there was one piece that wasn’t coming out. He would have to soak it with bleach or else it wouldn’t go away. Now was that in the living room or did he leave it in the kitchen…?

“Trying to erase him from your life isn’t going to help you when you still wear his ring around your neck.”

John scowled as he defensively wrapped his hand around the ring next to his dog tags.

“How did you-,” John cut off, shaking his head, “Never mind. It’s not important. Just get out of our apartment Mycroft.”

John didn’t even recognize his use of ‘our’ and if he did, Mycroft doubted he even cared, so he sighed and leaned on his umbrella.

“John, you could move in with me and leave this place if it only brings you bad memories. I can easily transfer money from his trust into yours as his will asked. You wouldn’t have to stay where all the reminders of him are. Sherlock would not have wanted you to be stuck here, wasting away without him.”

_Sherlock asked me to watch over you. I intend to do just that whether you are willing to come with me or if I have to come to you._  This is what he wanted to say, but could not.

“Like hell that’s what Sherlock would have wanted. He would have bleeding told you off for suggesting it. You can keep the money - I have no use of it. Now kindly piss off! Go blow up Russia or something. And stop acting like you care!”

John spat at Mycroft in purely frustrated anger. He marched over to the door, only stumbling over one pile of books, and opened it.

“Don’t come back. I will not be here if you do,” John sharply stated.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft’s face was indifferent, but inside his emotions were molting into forlorn sorrow at John’s mental state, “Given the circumstances, I will take that threat seriously. I shall have Anthea drop a care package off at your door the beginning of each week until I see that you are functioning normally. Rest assured, you will not be seeing me anytime soon.”

Mycroft stood and walked steadily over to the door.

“Or ever,” John just said, still waiting for Mycroft to move his fat arse and leave him alone. Before Mycroft stepped out, he hesitated, eying John carefully. His attitude turned completely passionate as he said the last words he could to John.

“My brother was a foolish, dreadful man who enjoyed stripping things down to the bone, but he **never** cared more for a person than he did for you, John. Do not doubt that fact.”

John slammed the door shut at those words, his eyes closing as he held back a wave of unshed tears. He turned, leaning his back on the door as he listened to Mycroft descend into the hallway. Mrs. Hudson must have heard the commotion for Mycroft’s voice murmured a bit along with hers before both went silent. Then the street door opened and clicked shut. Only then did John stand up, walk over to his tea, and curl into Sherlock’s spot, emotions frayed and all hope lost for this to be a dream.

John cast his eyes sedately over the surrounding mess until they stopped at Sherlock’s violin. He gulped down his tea as his eyes closed. The tea was warm, sliding down his throat in a comfortable embrace. It reminded him of the times where he was happy, listening to Sherlock play his violin while he read the news and drank. He could sometimes imagine Sherlock’s serene face as he played John’s now favorite song, _Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)_ whenever he took a sip. It comforted him almost as well as Sherlock’s smile had…

That night, John’s tea cup was filled seven more times before he fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the fall, John drinks so much tea to comfort himself that he ends up hospitalized with Kidney problems.


	2. Sherlock's Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers Sherlock

Six months later, John lay wrapped up in Sherlock’s bed, drinking his twelfth cup of tea that morning and begrudgingly eating food from that week’s care package via Mycroft. The first time Anthea had dropped off the package, he dropped it out the window and texted Sherlock’s homeless network. It was gone before an hour was up. Mycroft then sent John a strict note.

            _Do that again, Mr. Watson, and I will take you myself to a Mental Health Rehabilitation Center. It’s your choice._

_-MH_

It really wasn’t a hard choice, but John officially hated Mycroft if he hadn’t already.

Now that John was back at work, he was functioning at a relatively normal capacity. On good days, he would mechanically go to work, eat something that was left for him from the package, drink copious amounts of green tea, sometimes with cinnamon, sometimes without, and mechanically go home to drink some more and curl up in Sherlock’s bed. On bad days, He didn’t get up from Sherlock’s bed unless for a bathroom break or more tea. John had started out sleeping in Sherlock’s bed for the comfort of Sherlock’s smell and memory of his arms the few nights he slept in them, but those things were long gone. Now John sleeps there for the simple fact that he still loved Sherlock and Sherlock had loved him.

            -Flashback-

            _John stretched in his chair as Sherlock worked in the kitchen with the recently required kidneys Molly gave him. John stood with his back popping, sighing in relief as the dull pain subsided. After picking up some of the dirty dishes from the side table, John moved towards the kitchen to dispose of them in the sink. The kitchen needed to be cleaned up a bit as John had trouble placing the dishes down anywhere. He had to move the petri dish with fortified cows’ eyes on them in order to put the plate and cup next to the sink._

_When John turned back around to go to bed for the night, he was shocked to see Sherlock staring at him in what he would almost say nervousness. Sherlock had the “I’m not quite sure how to do this in a socially acceptable way” look plastered over his face which usually meant nothing good. John moved to put the kettle on. He could tell when they were about to have a long conversation and he would not be having one this late at night tea-less._

_“Move in with me,” were Sherlock’s words, “And stop drinking so much tea, you’ll bloat.”_

_That floored John._

_“What?”_

_“Tea will swell-”_

_“Not that, you wanker, the other thing. What did you say?”_

_Sherlock turned back to his microscope, clearly taking that as a no._

_“Oh stop being a_ _prick_ _, that wasn’t a rejection,” John rolled his eyes, coming to stand next to Sherlock after flicking the stove on_ _, “What did you mean by that?”_

_Sherlock glared into the microscope._

_John sighed, “Sherlock, love, please explain what brilliant thought process you have going on in that massive intellect of yours.”_

_Exhaling loudly, Sherlock turned to him, completely missing the teasing in the statement (John mentally smiled – boosting his ego works every time), “I dislike repeating myself John. You know that.”_

_John huffed, moving to run his hands through Sherlock’s curls._

_“Sherlock, I’ve been living with you for months so when you ask me to move in with you, when I **already am here** , I become confused.”_

_Sherlock growled lowly, stuck between frustration and annoyance, but John knew that only a small portion of that was towards him. Sherlock looked at the wall towards his left._

_“I… want you to move into my bedroom.”_

_John blinked, “Oh,” and, after a little pause, groaned._

_From the tone, Sherlock knew that John was rejecting it._

_“Love, we’ve talked about this. I am not moving in to your bedroom.”_

_Sherlock turned and his gaze burned John._

_“No, Sherlock,” John began, but was interrupted by the kettle going off. He stood and was closely followed by Sherlock. John put together his and Sherlock’s tea as Sherlock set his hands on John’s hips, kissing the back of his neck._

_“John, There is no reason why you shouldn’t. We are in a relationship, we kiss, we have sex, and we are sentimental towards one another so why not share a bed?”_

_“Sherlock,” John handed over Sherlock’s tea, “The moment I move in with you, I will have no place to go when we fight.”_

_“I’ll sleep on the couch. I rarely sleep anyway,” Sherlock stated off handily._

_“Exactly, and when you do, I would like you to be sleeping where you can actually get a good night’s rest,” John replied, ever the doctor. He took a long sip of his tea as Sherlock mulled it over._

_“I will be John,” Sherlock asserted after a moment, “I will be with you. We are only assuming that if we fight,” –“When we fight,” – “ **if** we fight, I will move out for the night. However, I come from the understanding that this is normal for couples.”_

_“You hate normal.”_

_Sherlock sent a piercing glare at John as he turned back to his microscope. John just finished off his tea and poured himself another._

_“I love you, don’t I,” Sherlock stated, “I even gave you my ring to prove it.”_

_John didn’t know whether to be affronted by the comment or endeared by the warm feeling he got in his stomach. He chose angered fondness when he rolled his eyes, sighed, and shook his head._

_“Prat,” John laughed slightly, kissing Sherlock’s cheek before he deposited his almost empty cup in the sink. Sherlock fidgeted slightly before placing his cup next to John’s. John started walking away, causing Sherlock to panic slightly in confusion, before turning back around with a smile._

_“Are you going to help me move my stuff or what?”_

_Sherlock’s grin as he sped past John towards John’s ‘old’ room spread a fluttery sensation throughout John’s body. He followed behind happily now that his actual worry over sharing the bed was relieved. Sherlock really did love him whole heartedly. He curled his hand around his tags where Sherlock had placed his promise ring that morning. He felt the platinum band touch his collar bone and smiled fondly._

_A sudden thump from upstairs shook John out of his daze. He hurried towards his room, hoping Sherlock hadn’t dropped his gun and put more holes through the wall._

            -Flashback-

Two weeks later, Sherlock jumped. John hadn’t even gotten used to having someone hold him at night, let alone calling the bedroom theirs, so it remained Sherlock’s. John quickly brushed a hand over his aching face that pounded with a fierce headache; he needed another cup of tea. But first, he really had to use the loo.


	3. Too Much Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can only have so much...

Almost a full year later, John was at work trying to calm a hysterical mother down while he checked up on her twelve year old boy. He had series of rocks, metal, and pieces of plastic impeded in his right leg along with a mild concussion. John’s heart fluttered in pain when the boy whined about his experiment going up in shreds and not over the actual harm it did to him. When he told the mother to keep her son of his leg and awake for the next twenty hours, he was relieved to see that they were the last ones in the waiting room at that time.

He was feeling dreadful that day, headache building up, tired, and his sides aching something terrible. It didn’t help that last night he had accidently knocked down the skull, cracking it down the frontal lobe area. He fell asleep crying his heart out at the reminder, drowning his sorrow in four kettles of tea. Some point during the night he had wet the bed and proceeded to wake up in the mess, feeling like utter shite; he’d even been late to work today when the only clean clothes he could find were his only pair of white pants and Sherlock’s favourite jumper. Every time he looked in the mirror, his gut was stabbed by the constant reminder of what he lost. Thankfully, there was some free time for him to relax and get a couple cups of tea to calm his frayed nerves. John happily turned towards his office. As he took his first step, he felt an excruciating pain rip through his body. He sucked in a hissed breath that was loud enough to draw Sarah’s attention from the hallway as she passed.

“You okay in here Watson?”

Things with Sarah were awkward at best since she learned that he was gay. Usually, the best he got from her was a terse ‘Morning’ and a frown.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” John said, taking a stuttered breath, trying to calm his body down, “Everything is fine. Just startled a bit’s all.”

John gave her a strained smile and continued to his office. Sarah eyed him suspiciously, taking in his ragged appearance with a scornful eye.

“Go home Watson. You are in no shape to be here today.”

She left him standing there abruptly. He shook his head in awe at the day. John stepped into his office, gathered his things, and locked the door. The fresh cup of tea he grabbed before he left felt great running down his throat. He walked into the hall where the receptionist and Sarah were talking. He briefly nodded his goodbye, heading towards the entrance. Before getting to the door though, he felt another wave of searing pain shoot through him, but this time it was not fading; it was intensifying.

He dropped his things and crumbled to the ground, wetting himself in the process. He was in too much pain to feel shame over it. The pain crashed chaotically through his body as he felt like he was being torn from the inside out with heated spikes. It wasn’t until the pain subsided enough for him to breathe that he realized his white pants had a growing wet spot tinged pink; that was definitely not good.

John’s head and eyes became fuzzy, his hearing faded as Sarah and the receptionist panicked and shouted around him. His side was in total agony and it wasn’t dulling anymore. John wondered vaguely if he was going to meet Sherlock in Heaven soon. The white, searing pain was enough to shut down his system. The last thing he remembered before completely blacking out was the tea cup laying on its side, clear liquid slowly soaking into the carpet.

            -

            _“Watson-!”_

_“Call an ambulance Rebecca!”_

_“Watson, stay with us.”_

_“What’s wrong with him?”_

_Hands shaking him, feeling his forehead._

_“Damn it. Come on John!”_

_\--_

_“-the verdict?”_

_“He has multiple stones in both his kidneys and they need to be removed. Now. He risks kidney failure if we don’t act and get him into surgery.”_

_“ I will pay any price, just get your best team and do it.”_

_“Of course, Mr. Holmes.”_

_The shuffle of feet and wheels scraping the ground._

_A solid hand on his knee._

_“Sherlock will not be happy with me… Nor you, John Watson.-”_

_\--_

_“- hell happened to him?!”_

_“Sherlock, you shouldn’t be here right now. You are in middle of your mission.”_

_“Mycroft-!”_

_There was a sigh._

_“It seems as though he has had a little too much tea since you have been gone.”_

_“Tea? He’s in the hospital because of tea? What, did eat the bags?!”_

_“The recommended amount of cups per day is six. From the amount of oxalate in his blood stream and the size and amount of the stones in his kidneys, Dr. Quinton estimated about three cups an hour. Dr. Watson has been addicted to tea for more than eighteen months – ever since you left. It was lucky that he only drinks green tea, or else he could have had kidney failure instead.”_

_A pair of warm hands touched him, one on his forehead, one in holding his right hand._

_“John, you imbecile,” chapped lips brushed the back of his hands, “I told you to stop drinking that much tea.”_

_“Sherlock, you need to leave soon. He’s still in danger while Moran is out there.”_

_“Give me a moment with him.”_

_“Sherlock-”_

-


	4. Telling John the Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the hospital and is resigned, though annoyed, at the situation

The rhythmic noise of a heart monitor beeped in John’s ear when he regained consciousness. He groaned as felt himself in a suffocating hospital bed, the sterile smell hitting his nostrils. There was an IV inserted in his left arm and hospital scrubs over his body.  They were scratchy and uncomfortable, but he’d worn worse in Afghanistan. John shifted a bit before he sucked in a huge breath, his sides protesting in a prickly sensation. He froze, biting his lip to keep from screaming, and laid back in a sweaty mess, regretting moving. It was only then did he realize a Urinary Catheter currently resided in his urethra. He groaned even more, but this time in embarrassment.

“Damn…”

“You’ve been out for two straight days, Dr. Watson. Perhaps it is time to cut back on the tea, hmm?”

“Bloody hell- Mycroft!” John shouted angrily, but grunted in pain as it jarred his sides.

“Calm down, Dr. Watson,” Dr. Quinton, an elderly, well-trimmed professional, chimed in soothingly, “You are pulling on your catheters. Mr. Holmes, leave my patient alone.”

John would have blushed if he was a weaker man, but it was actually Mycroft that looked a bit shy at the mention of the catheter. Wait, he said catheters… John groaned again.

“My apologies,” Mycroft muttered.

John turned his head towards Dr. Quinton, “What happened to me?”

“You had over a dozen kidney stones residing in your kidneys. One of them got clogged in your Ureter, scratching it and tearing some of the organ causing your kidney to back log. You were pretty close to pre-kidney failure and extremely lucky that the only thing you have to show for it is the incision in your back.”

John looked at him ominously, thinking about something, “Percutaneous Nephrolithotomy or Nephrolithotripsy?”

“Nephrolithotomy,” Dr. Quinton said.

John quickly counted on his fingertips worriedly. Mycroft, who had at some point say in the chair next to John’s bed, spoke up.

“Don’t bother, Dr. Watson, Sherlock’s trust fund covers everything,” Mycroft smiled, but quickly added at John’s frown, “Think of it as a gift from Sherlock.”

“I’m getting gifts from a dead man, lovely,” John muttered, resigned to the money given to him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to afford it if he didn’t.

Mycroft stood, looking at Dr. Quinton with a questioning look. Dr. Quinton nodded at him, “In two days, Mr. Holmes, but no less.”

Mycroft let out a loud breath at that and nodded, “I will take my leave than.”

He turned to John, “Recover well, Dr. Watson.”

Before John could say anything, Mycroft was out the door. John looked at Dr. Quinton in confusion.

“What was that about?”

Dr. Quinton came over, checking the IV and switching the bag attached to the catheter, “Absolutely nothing.”

John snorted, “I’m not a three year old.”

“Never the less, Dr. Watson,” Dr. Quinton smiled at him, “The business going on between Mr. Holmes and myself are none of your concern. Now need I remind you that you are to have a maximum of three cups of tea a day, or do you want to have come back and have a kidney transplant?”

“Three cups. Got it,” John said abashedly.

“Good,” Dr. Quinton quickly made a few notes on John’s medial clipboard, muttering to himself quietly before turning back to John. John, seeing that he was about to be debriefed, settled down comfortably to wait for the long speech.

“Due to the tearing in your ureters, a few semi-dissolvable stitches where sewn into ureters’ surrounding walls. We will keep the kidney catheter installed until we see you have dispelled the thread. As you know, that means you will have the catheters in for the next five weeks or so. We will have to schedule you back in for the removal process before we release you.”

He paused and smiled up at John who knew he was not going to like what he said next.

“As for the urinary catheter – well unfortunately for you, it will have to become a daily thing. Your kidneys will be trying to gain back some normality and your bladder will yell at you for a while because of it. In the next three weeks, you will need to keep reapplying it and changing the bag. We will give you the leg strap and a box for the bags and new tubing. You will have to change the catheter every 24 hours. If you by chance run out of anything, just come back here and I will refill your supplies.”

John grimaced, but Dr. Quinton continued on.

“You will be able to leave soon after tomorrow as long as everything else runs smoothly. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Can I get something for the nasty headache I currently have?”

Dr. Quinton shook his head, “You are going through tea withdrawal, which is a real thing mind you. I can’t give you anything right now other than the liquids in your IV. Perhaps tomorrow after I check your blood? The clock, by the way, reads 7:35 a.m., so we can fill you with some high in glucose food throughout the day.”

Dr. Quinton patted John’s knee in a small attempt of comfort. John sighed.

“In the meantime, get some rest. I’ll have a nurse wake you up for some lunch around noon and then later for supper. By then, you should hopefully be free of that headache.”

“Thanks, Dr. Quinton,” John said, grateful for the care he had been given, even though he hated spending time as the patient.

“Sleep well.”

Dr. Quinton left with a small smile, letting John completely relax. However, John knew it would be a long two days – he was much too tired to fall asleep.


	5. Comfort Without Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is an idiot. John is pissed. It all works out in the end.

It was 1:30 a.m. when John woke up from feeling his bladder empty via the blasted urinary catheter. God he hated these things. They annoyed him, felt uncomfortable, and woke him up each time it emptied. He was absolutely going to dislike the next two weeks with having to constantly use them. John shifted a little, trying to get into a better position without irritating his side. A light breeze tickled his nose. It confused him because he swore the window was shut when he went to sleep. He scowled tiredly and knew it would take a while to go back to sleep now that he was up and coherent. John sneezed as the breeze blew by again, chilling him. He reached blindly for the call button to get a nurse to close it for him, but his hand instead came into contact with a heavy coat.

John immediately froze, sucking in a monstrous breath, readying himself to scream. He didn’t stand a chance if it came down to a fight, what him bedridden in the hospital and all. Before he could make a sound, a hand grabbed the one he had on the coat and another descended on his mouth. His heart monitor sky rocketed as he began to panic. John thrashed in his bed, pulling at all of his tubing, but luckily, nothing tore. Sunddenly, a mouth was pressed against his causing his eyes to fly open (when did he shut them) and stare. He went into shock as very familiar eyes, ones that _belonged to a dead man,_ were staring right back at him _._ When the man pulled away, John’s eyes flashed in rage and he threw the hardest punch he possibly could in his position. The solid ‘thunk’ and pained groan quenched the pain flaring in his side at that moment.

“You Barmy Bastard! How dare you- You better be dead, you bleeding tosser, ‘cause I’ll kill you if you aren’t SherlllMmmphckf.”

Sherlock kissed the hell out John with his lips scorchingly desperate, blood pouring into John’s mouth from a cut made by Sherlock’s teeth. John’s hatred and love spilled over when his teeth clanked with Sherlock’s in equally as desperate love. Sherlock had John’s head in both his hands, holding onto him as if John would melt and slip through his fingers. John’s right hand was shoved in Sherlock’s hair grabbing and pulling painfully at his curls, his left clenching at Sherlock’s hip. Just a few seconds later, John sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth and bit it hard. Even more blood poured from Sherlock into John’s mouth. Sherlock whipped back in pain.

“Jawn!” Sherlock stuffed some tissues around his bleeding lip and then by the cut made from the punch. John glared up at him, pointed to the chair next to his bed, and waited. Sherlock actually took the hint and sat, looking warily at John as adrenaline still flowed through both of their veins. John had to take several breaths before he was almost calm enough to not smash Sherlock’s overly large cranium to a pulp. Almost.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here Sherlock?” John hissed out, “You’re dead! Of all the daft things you could ruddy do, you had to off yourself by jumping of a bloody building and suddenly you show up as if I didn’t go through months of emotional trauma from watching my fiancé die?!”

John paused to let his words sink in and to take another breath. Sherlock squirmed a bit, but John could tell he wanted to say something. He put up a hand to stop him.

“You better have a damn good excuse for all of this. Don’t even try to lie to me right now. Tell me why - Why did you have to kill yourself in order to leave me?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparked in annoyance, “Nawt to Eave o’, oh bwoody,” he threw the tissues away and tried again.

“Not to leave you John. Never to leave you and never like that.”

Sherlock said the words in fierce reassurance.

“I sincerely doubt that,” John stared at Sherlock with an eyebrow raised, fingers tapping his leg in agitation.

“You were meant to stay safe,” Sherlock snapped, standing from the chair and pacing, the adrenaline in him too much to bear at the moment, “You weren’t supposed to end up in the hospital. Mycroft promised he’d keep you safe.’

“Wait, Mycroft knew you were alive?!” John gasped out.

“Like that’s surprising,” Sherlock waved off the remark, “Mycroft told me to wait until you were out of the hospital tomorrow, but I had to see you the moment after I killed the last one, I couldn’t wait.”

John wished he could throttle Mycroft as much as he wished he could Sherlock. At least the conversation between Mycroft and Doctor Quinton made sense now. John had a quick moment of revenge when he realized how pissed Mycroft would be at Sherlock now.

“-He told me you were doing fine,” Sherlock continued, knocking John out of his thoughts, “That you weren’t becoming emotionally off balanced or in need of mental rehab. He lied; obviously you aren’t fine since you needed surgery to get rid of Kidney stones. Kidney stones, John! From tea! You could have died from plants! I warned you about that you know, the day I gave you my ring. I should have known you would never give tea up.”

John’s hand had unconsciously moved to hold onto the ring, but the moment Sherlock mentioned it, he dropped his hand onto the bed.

“You weren’t supposed to keep the ring, you know,” Sherlock said sedately this time, “You should have flush it or sold it. You were supposed to get angry with me and have a normal life without me in it; maybe acquire a little, dull wife and a boring child or two. You should have had that. No, John, never would I have wanted you to be here, emotionally scarred and physically in pain, still pining after a dead man.”

“That’s great and all,” John’s eye twitched in vexation, “But what the hell does it have to do with the fall? You could have stayed with me. We could have run away, Moriarty be damned, but instead you just had to win at your stupid little game.”

“Do you not see it, John? He was going to kill you, to murder you, and leave me with nothing!” Sherlock yelled at him, eyes flaming in such anger and sorrow that John had to look away, “He had a sniper on you, on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade! What the hell was I supposed to do? Let you die?!”

John sucked in a breath, not believing a word of what he was hearing, “I told you, Sherlock. Do not lie to me. Not about this.”

“John!” Sherlock grabbed John’s face between his hands, “Look at me! No, don’t turn your eyes away. Look. At. Me.”

John raised his eyes and looked – at Sherlock’s sunken checks. At his red-rimmed, blackened eyes. At the multitude of small scars now littering his face. At the still oozing cut of his lip. John stared and felt a little bit more of him crumble.

“John, I am not lying to you,” Sherlock hissed urgently, “I. Did. Not. Want. You. Dead.”

John let out one heart wrenching sob, just one, and continued to stare at Sherlock with blurry eyes. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

“You are my life, and I would be damned if Moriarty took you away from me as he did the entire world. I wanted you safe, here, where he couldn’t get to you and if that meant I had to leave you, I would do it without pause again and again until I knew you would always be safe... God, John… If you had-”

Sherlock cut off there, turning his head away. John could see his shoulders shaking; feel those cold hands tremble on his checks. John wrapped his right hand slowly around one and squeezed it before moving his mouth to kiss it gently.

“You daft git,” John whispered, tears of his own sliding gently down his cheeks, “If you had only told me…”

“I’m sorry – I – I – he targeted you, I didn’t – there was no time… I’m so sorry…”

John pulled at Sherlock gently, but firmly, waiting for Sherlock to finish laying his head on John’s chest. John wrapped his arms around him, IV be damned, and stroked his hair.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.”

John kissed Sherlock’s head.

“All’s forgiven as long as you promise never to leave me out of the loop again. Or go and kill yourself, for that matter.”

John kissed Sherlock’s head for a second time as Sherlock let out a disjointed laugh.

“And you must promise to cut back on the tea.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s body tightly, lip trembling.

“Deal.”

~~The End~~

**Author's Note:**

> After the fall, John drinks so much tea to comfort himself that he ends up in the hospital with kidney problems.


End file.
